Chicks Who Don't Read Books

We had barely begun our homestead when we seriously began studying the Murry McMurry Hatchery catalog. We weren't really ready for chickens, but that was barely a passing thought. We had read the books, lots of books; and articles, many articles (this was before the Internet). We knew what to do.

That first batch of chicks were raised by the book. They survived, and so did we, in spite of that. They arrived via mail and were the cutest things we'd ever seen. We wanted to do our best by them.

The books said that the chicks needed temperatures of 90 degrees or so, for six weeks, before they could go out on their own into a coop. We didn't have regular electric power so the typical heat lamp was out. It was May and we were living in our 14 x 22 ft one room cabin. We set up a large cardboard box (see picture above) on a card table beside our bed, because that was the only extra space in the room. We kept the woodstove going even though it was getting warm outside. We roasted, and the chicks probably did, too.

By the time the chicks were the required six weeks old, according to the books, they had advanced to a 4 x 8 ft box which was a significant portion of our floor space. We had to add a chicken wire addition to the top of the box to keep the fast growing chicks in. And the cabin developed a coat of "chicken dust" that we never did get rid of.

They were fun, but they sure were happy when moving day came -- and so were we. We would miss their antics -- the three dozen alert eyes below the variably fuzzed heads suddenly popping up, straight and to the point, to look at any strange noise (such as a sneeze or laugh or crash); the developing personalities; the peeps, the cheeps, the squabbles. But we all knew there had to be a better way of living for them, and for us.

Their new coop wasn't quite ready yet so we turned our utility trailer into a temporary coop, with several additions and modifications, using scrap and salvaged materials. An attached short chicken wire enclosure allowed them access to the ground. We moved them out with a little bit of concern - was it too early - too cold? But the concern was all ours. They knew just what to do and wasted no time doing it. Scratching, pecking, running, jumping over each other. They loved it, we loved it. Nothing like real grass and dirt under your feet and real insects to chase and eat to make life fine.

Eight years later we decided we wanted some color variety in our flock once again. We had originally purchased five each of seven different varieties of heavy breed chickens. The rooster we had chosen to keep (or he chose to stay with us) was a Barred Rock. So over the years of attrition, brooding and hatching, our flock ended up all being variations of the Barred Rock coloring, nature being the way she is.

Once again an order was sent off for a colorful variety of chicks. We were living in our newly finished house by then and had a sunny spot by the chimney for a large cardboard chick box. We still had the woodstove going occasionally, but only when we needed it, not especially for the chicks. In fact, our house is naturally rather cool.

What we did have for the chicks, in opposite corners of their box, was two one-gallon plastic jugs, filled with hot water morning and night, and wrapped with old towels. The towel was draped such that it wrapped around the jug then folded out to make a tent for chicks to get into.

Some of the chicks started right off roosting on top of the jugs while some spent almost all of their time inside the tents next to the warmth. Others nestled near the jugs now and then when they felt need of the heat or comfort I suppose.

A piece of chicken wire for a lid kept the ambitious ones in (a few discovered they could fly out of the box by launching from the tops of the jugs and it is not easy to catch a lively chick loose in a large room). They all thrived happily and healthily.

A week and a half after they arrived an addition was built to their cardboard palace, with high chicken wire sides to keep them in yet let them see out. The small stick roosts were replaced with larger and higher roosts. One water jug was removed and the other filled with hot water only at night. A few chicks still used the jug for warmth but most just used it as a roost. A lot of bedding was used, both sawdust and hay. And this time we all enjoyed the experience.

Two more weeks went by and at three and a half weeks old the fast growing chicks were happily moved outside to their own, small coop and fenced-in area within the large chicken yard. They reveled in playing and pecking in the grass, chasing insects, and watching the adult chickens from the safety of their enclosure.

We had previously learned that having a separate area for the mother hens and their chicks was a lot easier and safer for mom and her brood. They had their own small coop and fenced yard, separate but right beside and in company with the main flock. When mother hen was ready, when the chicks were about 6 weeks old, she was let back in with the rest of the flock and the chicks stayed in their separate enclosure until fall when they were old enough to hold their own and become part of the main flock. This separate area worked great for the new mail-order orphan chicks as well. They thrived -- bringing diversity, color, fun (and later, eggs) to our world.

Chicken Memories

It has been many years since we gave the last of our chickens away, but their spirits and the adventures we had with them still make us smile.

Like the time Mr. C (a large tom cat who wandered into our lives one fall day) was chasing/playing with a small mouse out in the yard. As he turned around for another pounce, a savvy Barred Rock hen wandered by, turned, grabbed, and ate the small rodent without the cat's notice. Mr. C simply could not believe the mouse was gone. He searched and searched the area for his missing treat, while the hen wandered nonchalantly away. Mr. C didn't seem to appreciate our hoots of laughter either.

Or the time Steve was working on our current "vintage" car, a 1970 Opal Cadette, when he dropped a necessary small bolt into the long grass. We searched, and searched -- hands and knees, noses and fingers, over and over that area for what seemed like hours, with no success. A wandering hen came by, pecked in the grass, came up with the bolt, rattled it around in her beak a moment, then spit it out in disgust and haughtily walked away. The bolt was retrieved by the humbled humans, with no comment.

In the late summer when the herbs were tall and lush, I would often toss handfuls of mint into the chicken coop (the floor of which was dirt with a generous supply of hay and sawdust for bedding). It was great for the general atmosphere. Wormwood was used often, fresh or dried, in the hay-filled nest boxes, to discourage any unwanted critters (such as mites or lice).

The wormwood didn't work against snakes though. Not that I had ever thought it should, or needed to. But one day I was calmly collecting eggs from the nest boxes (hung about eye level on the walls) when I looked over my shoulder to see a Pine Snake looking calmly back from within a nearby nest box. Well, I like snakes, but (though I do hate to admit it) I much prefer the larger ones to be at a two foot or so distance, especially from my nose. I'm also not much for picking up Pine Snakes. So I went to ask Steve if he'd mind taking a small Pine Snake out of the coop.

Turned out this small snake was four feet long -- a quite healthy adult, with egg lumps along its body. We figured we should take it away from the homestead to discourage a repeat visit, so put him temporarily in a cardboard box, with a board on top to keep the top down. When we came back about 10 minutes later, the box was empty. But there were no more snake visits to the chicken coop.

A great winter treat, for both chickens and us, was a bale of good, green alfalfa hay. In the fall, we'd get six bales of the best looking hay we could find. Then about once a month, during the winter, we'd put a bale of hay in the coop (twine removed). The chickens had a great time scratching and eating and spreading the hay around. And we enjoyed the fresh aroma and dark yellow yolks.

When it came time to butcher, we took the advice of a friend who had rabbits and banty chickens: we skinned them. No plucking (which, we discovered the first time we tried it, is a skill very hard to learn from a book). Skinning is relatively easy with two people -- one holds, the other pulls.

Usually I would can the meat, approximately one bird per quart jar. Even old hens turned out tender and delicious. All the bones, wings, and giblets were simmered in water for a long time (to concentrate the broth), strained, and canned for soup stock. A lot of work, but great eating.

If you're planning on letting your chickens run free range, you might want to give consideration to the best camouflage coloring for their environment, and choose accordingly. Our Barred Rock rooster was great at spotting a hawk, usually giving his warning cry before we humans could see the coming threat. The flock would all freeze where they were, hugging the ground, hiding, but being mostly quite visible in their bright white and red and black coverings. We chased off many a hawk and owl, and lost many a chicken, over the years. I have often wondered if more camouflaged colored chickens would have had a bettered chance at survival.

When we gave up our flock, we pretty much gave up eggs. It wasn't that hard. We just left them out of the pancakes, and breads, and cookies. It still made fine food. But we do miss those great, strong, deep yellow yolked, eggs -- cooked just to that not-too-runny, not-too-hard stage, gently slid upon a small stack of hearty, whole wheat pancakes, with homemade maple syrup dripping off the edges.

But mostly, we miss the personalities. Rocky, the wonder rooster, a sturdy Barred Rock with the long, sharp spurs, who was much admired by the hens, and who really didn't like me; Reddy, his favorite companion, a small, trim, Rhode Island Red hen with a friendly and alert manner, who would come into the cabin with her pal Rocky to pick at odds and ends hidden in the cracks of our wooden floor; Spesh, a small, paranoid, handsome, long tailed, Silver Spangled Hamburg rooster who was cruelly tossed into a box of full sized birds as a freebie, and who spent his days on the windowsill of the coop, out of the way of the rest of the block, all of whom were fully twice his size; and the lively, little white bantam mix hen who loved to jump up on people's shoulders when they walked into the yard, to the delight of some, the extreme non-delight of others (especially if her feet weren't exactly clean); and so many more. All sizes, shapes, colors, and personalities.

If you are willing to give them plenty of space; to study and learn as much as you can; work and care for them, chickens can be a great companion and worthy part of the homestead.

A Different Opinion

In our first flock of chickens there were some White Rocks who grew into very large (very fat) hens. One developed a baseball sized lump on her chest. It didn't seem to bother her at all except that between her weight and the lump she had trouble getting up onto the roost at night. So we built her a ladder.

On all accounts she seemed to be a healthy, happy hen. She wasn't the anxious athletic type; walking around eating was more her style, and she was a very good layer of eggs. Of our mixed match of old heavy breeds the White Rocks were the heaviest, and she outweighed them all. The ladder we built to help her up to the roost solved that problem. But we were concerned about the lump. It was maybe the size of a baseball, which was pretty big for even a large hen.

I called a vet and talked to the receptionist, explaining the problem. She said I'd have to bring the hen in to the office. I explained that I'd be happy to pay for a phone consult if I could just talk to the vet about it. It was winter and I couldn't see exposing the hen to the half mile hike up to the car and half hour drive to the veterinarian's office. The trauma of the trip would probably be worse than the lump. But the receptionist insisted I would have to bring the hen in, and no I couldn't talk with the vet on the phone. I said thank you, and hung up.

Next I called a county Extension Agent, explaining the situation. He said to kill the hen. He said it could be anything, it could spread to the whole flock. The only answer was to kill her right away, then keep an eye on the others and kill more if necessary. Mmmm, not exactly what I had in mind. I said thank you, and hung up.

Then I remembered a fellow we had heard speak at an Extension meeting on backyard poultry flocks. The kind where they start out by saying that a flock of less than 100 chickens is not worth bothering with, and of course you will have all modern hybrids. We sat through all of that, not getting much of practical use from any of the speakers. Then the last speaker got up, a calm, elderly man. He stood with half-closed eyes, sort of staring into space, and proceeded to give some of the best poultry raising advice I've ever heard or read. He ignored everything that had been said before, just shared his plain, common sense ideas and experiences. Turned out he was the regional animal pathologist. I called him with my chicken problem, and this no doubt very busy man, very kindly listened.

When I told him what the vet's office had said, he replied, "No, no, no." When I relayed the County Extension Agent's words, he emphatically said, "Oh, no, no, no." I could almost hear him shaking his head.

He then went on to say that if the hen didn't appear to be in pain and was laying well, there was no reason to do anything. He said that chickens have a high threshold of pain. She could have a growth, it could be a crop problem, it could be several different things. If many chickens in a flock fell ill or developed problems, then yes, you should get concerned, maybe get a carcass to him to send out for testing. But an occasional problem is no need to panic.

I gratefully and sincerely thanked him, hung up, and went out to talk with the hen.

She lived, and laid well, for many, many years. When she developed respiratory problems (as did all of our White Rocks) and was obviously uncomfortable, we killed her. We buried her in the garden, in the perennial row, where we buried the other special chickens whom we just couldn't eat when it came time for them to go.

We don't keep chickens now, but their spirits are certainly still here on their homestead, roosting among the tools in their coop turned garden shed.

Earth Bermed Solar Chicken Coop - by Steve Schmeck